Reflection on Faith
In philosophy class we were assigned to read some articles making arguments for and against Evolution and Creationism. I wrote my response a couple of days ago. So here's a sample...
Reflection On My Faith
After reading the articles about “design in nature” and the theory of evolution, I got the sense that the people writing these articles seemed to have drawn a line in the sand, saying that the reader had to pick a side, unable to conciliate the theories of evolution and creationism. Only the last article seemed to soften that line a bit, but not enough. However, I cannot cross that line in either direction because I don’t believe either side is truly defined. Religion wants me to believe in the mythical aspects of creationism following the “factual” events described in the Bible and other religious tomes. In order to do this I need to rely on faith. Science wants me to believe in evolution following the facts of fossil evidence. However, all they can offer is a theory, so technically, in order to believe in scientific explanations of life, I need to rely on faith as well. How can I choose between two sides of an argument when neither side offers provable evidence? The answer is I cannot. All I have to rely on is my own philosophy and faith. Allow me to explain what my philosophy on faith is and how it developed.
I remember when my grandmother would wake me up at 6 o’clock in the morning every Saturday, color my six-year-old frame with happy fabrics, nourish my mouth with happy Quaker oats, and furiously grip my hand as I skipped the roughly ¾ mile to church. My sister, being three years older than I, was allowed to skip with both hands flowing through the air, as long as she did not lose pace with my grandmother’s quick, short glides. We were truly a happy group, for we were serving the Lord.
Upon arriving at the church, my grandmother would release us under our own recognizance, making her way to the other ladies gathering around the statue of San Martin de Porres (the adopted saint of our neighborhood), where they would disclose to each other any particular gossipy truths that would sustain them until their next meeting. My sister and I would dip our fingers in the font containing holy water and sign the holy trinity upon our foreheads as we knelt in the entrance of the house of the Father. We were taught to do that on our first visit to the Lord’s house, and were told to do it every time we entered a church. We figured it was like a secret knock, that we would magically be denied entry if we failed to perform the secret handshake or give the secret password, so we always knelt at the entrance, poking holy water upon our foreheads. (Still do to this day. One important thing we learned as children was to never break one of God’s rules.)
Once we managed entry into the great hall, we walked briskly past all the benches towards the altar (we never ran, running in church was frowned upon by everyone who wasn’t caught doing it). Reaching the altar we made a sharp right and entered through a door that was always closed but never locked, the lock having been broken during the War of the Pacific, when invading Chilean soldiers marched on Peruvian soil, destroying every property they could get their hands on, displaying their capacity for mercy in victory. The church had been so poor that the lock had never been repaired.
Past the weathered door we found the treasure we had been seeking. Inside the room were other children who, like us, were dressed in faded, but happy, colors, and were impatient to perform their part in the morning mass. We each grabbed a packet of sheets from a pile of papers atop a rickety wooden table that I always believed stayed upright solely through the power of prayer (I doubt the church could have afforded a new table). We waited until our adult leader finally arrived and set us into two equal lines. She had her daughter’s hand in one hand, and a small bag in the other. After placing her daughter in one of the lines, she marched in between both lines, pausing enough to allow each of us to reach into the bag she was carrying and pull a small heart-shaped pin out of it. It was a little red plastic thing, about the size of a half-dollar, with the words “Amo a Jesucristo” (I love Jesus Christ) written upon it in gold letters. We each pinned it upon our shirts, above where we calculated our hearts were, and waited for our cue.
Soon the bells began ringing, and after the seventh gong, it stopped. It was now 7 am, and the mass was about to begin. We were ushered by our parent/leader through the old broken door, past the pristine altar, towards the benches to the left side of the hall, underneath the giant statue of Mother Mary. We took our places and sat, waiting for our leader to tell us when to stand up and sing. While we waited I looked at the people sitting at mass. I recognized some of them, but most of them were complete strangers to me. I looked for my grandmother at her usual place, but as always her eyes were closed, as if nothing was as important as whatever she was viewing in her mind’s eye. Sometimes I thought she was sleeping but that theory was always disproved whenever her lips began moving in time with everybody else’s chanting. Soon it came time for us to sing and we sang about fish in the river, about Christ being born, about St. Joseph having to drink soup the child refused to have, and about a donkey going up a mountain. When mass finished, the priest looked towards us and smiled what I believe was a sign of thanks, but I’m not sure. We made our way back past the old door, and after piling our song sheets upon the rickety magical table and putting our pins back into the bag, my sister and I said our goodbyes to the other children and left to meet our grandmother by the holy water font at the church entrance.
We left for home, knowing full well that we would be back that night for evening mass, as well as the next day, for two more masses as well as a chorus practice. Those times though, we wouldn’t be dressed in happy colors. I would be wearing the best black pants and white shirt I had, and my sister would be wearing her best red dress and white shirt she owned. Our hair would be combed as if we were meeting God himself, which supposedly, in a way we were. We were allowed to wear happy colors only on Saturday mornings, and that was my favorite time. I hated wearing black pants and white shirts.
That was the extent of my church experience. I was in a church choir when I was six years old, when my grandmother made my sister and I join. My grandmother was the only one in the family who attended mass in the morning as well as in the evening. Most of the family went only on Sunday nights. I loved going to church, not just because of the choir, but because I knew my mother loved going too. My parents had moved to the United States when I was four, and hadn’t been able to return since. I knew that if my mother were home, it would have been her who would’ve taken us to church. She had been so proud when she was told my sister and I joined the church choir. I loved going to church for that.
My family as a whole wasn’t very religious. They went to church just so that the neighbors wouldn’t talk ill of us, and the neighbors themselves attended church for the same reason. The whole neighborhood was Roman Catholic, but that was only because Peru as a country is predominantly Roman Catholic. We were simply born into it and felt we had no choice, like we had no choice where we were born or who our parents were. However, we were fervently loyal to our faith in the face of anyone who questioned our hearts, although I suspect it was the same type of loyalty we reserved for our local soccer team. (Something else we had no choice over; whichever part of the city you were born in, if you didn’t root for the local team you were branded a traitor.)
When I was seven-years-old, my sister and I moved to America and reunited with our parents. Life in America was much different than life in Peru. One of the most glaring differences was that I no longer had to go to church. Once I asked my mother why she didn’t go to church anymore and her response was that she had no time. In retrospect I can see how it would have been difficult for her to find time around two jobs, two kids and a house to run. However, although she no longer attended mass, it did not mean she was no longer religious. Religion played a big part of our life growing up. There were always candles lit in prayer to God and to San Martin de Porres and Santa Rosa de Lima. My mother was particularly loyal to Peruvian saints.
Despite my mother’s ability to remain religious without going to church, I was not able to share her enthusiasm. Since nobody in my family went to church anymore, I did not go to church. I also made no effort to maintain any religious practices. In fact, I slowly began to forget I was catholic and didn’t really think about God until I was eleven, when my mother informed my sister and I that we were going to make our first communion.
During summer vacation of my eleventh year, my sister and I returned to Peru for two months and took catechism classes, capped by our communion ceremony. During those weeks of classes I began to finally learn about God, but my interest in religion was minimal. Like the rest of my family I was Roman Catholic in name only. In fact, I didn’t go back into a church until 6 years later, when my family held a memorial for my grandfather. I haven’t been to church since.
I don’t know if I am a good catholic or not. I don’t go to church but I am one of those people who believe that not being a churchgoer doesn’t necessarily make you a bad person. I believe that it is the actions you perform when nobody is looking that truly count with God. My main problem with my religion is that I am a person who relies on fact to understand reality, however, my reality has always been shaped by faith. So when I go to school and learn that man descended from the apes I have the drive to believe the facts before me. However, the faith ingrained within me tells me that evolutionary theory is wrong. My true beliefs, lie somewhere in between. Why can’t both sides be true?
I still have trouble reconciling both aspects of my life, the side of me that needs knowledge to understand life, and the part of me that needs faith to function. I may not be very religious, nor a “good” catholic, but I do have a lot of faith. A big part of me still wakes up at six in the morning, ready to go to church and sing songs about fish in the river. I suspect it is the same with everyone in my family. We all want to believe in a higher being watching over us. This is particularly true when we find ourselves in a spot of trouble. I always find myself talking to God, not in search of a “deal”, or asking for help, but just to acknowledge to myself that I do have faith. It is a good way to not feel alone. As the saying goes “There are no atheists in foxholes.”
Reflection On My Faith
After reading the articles about “design in nature” and the theory of evolution, I got the sense that the people writing these articles seemed to have drawn a line in the sand, saying that the reader had to pick a side, unable to conciliate the theories of evolution and creationism. Only the last article seemed to soften that line a bit, but not enough. However, I cannot cross that line in either direction because I don’t believe either side is truly defined. Religion wants me to believe in the mythical aspects of creationism following the “factual” events described in the Bible and other religious tomes. In order to do this I need to rely on faith. Science wants me to believe in evolution following the facts of fossil evidence. However, all they can offer is a theory, so technically, in order to believe in scientific explanations of life, I need to rely on faith as well. How can I choose between two sides of an argument when neither side offers provable evidence? The answer is I cannot. All I have to rely on is my own philosophy and faith. Allow me to explain what my philosophy on faith is and how it developed.
I remember when my grandmother would wake me up at 6 o’clock in the morning every Saturday, color my six-year-old frame with happy fabrics, nourish my mouth with happy Quaker oats, and furiously grip my hand as I skipped the roughly ¾ mile to church. My sister, being three years older than I, was allowed to skip with both hands flowing through the air, as long as she did not lose pace with my grandmother’s quick, short glides. We were truly a happy group, for we were serving the Lord.
Upon arriving at the church, my grandmother would release us under our own recognizance, making her way to the other ladies gathering around the statue of San Martin de Porres (the adopted saint of our neighborhood), where they would disclose to each other any particular gossipy truths that would sustain them until their next meeting. My sister and I would dip our fingers in the font containing holy water and sign the holy trinity upon our foreheads as we knelt in the entrance of the house of the Father. We were taught to do that on our first visit to the Lord’s house, and were told to do it every time we entered a church. We figured it was like a secret knock, that we would magically be denied entry if we failed to perform the secret handshake or give the secret password, so we always knelt at the entrance, poking holy water upon our foreheads. (Still do to this day. One important thing we learned as children was to never break one of God’s rules.)
Once we managed entry into the great hall, we walked briskly past all the benches towards the altar (we never ran, running in church was frowned upon by everyone who wasn’t caught doing it). Reaching the altar we made a sharp right and entered through a door that was always closed but never locked, the lock having been broken during the War of the Pacific, when invading Chilean soldiers marched on Peruvian soil, destroying every property they could get their hands on, displaying their capacity for mercy in victory. The church had been so poor that the lock had never been repaired.
Past the weathered door we found the treasure we had been seeking. Inside the room were other children who, like us, were dressed in faded, but happy, colors, and were impatient to perform their part in the morning mass. We each grabbed a packet of sheets from a pile of papers atop a rickety wooden table that I always believed stayed upright solely through the power of prayer (I doubt the church could have afforded a new table). We waited until our adult leader finally arrived and set us into two equal lines. She had her daughter’s hand in one hand, and a small bag in the other. After placing her daughter in one of the lines, she marched in between both lines, pausing enough to allow each of us to reach into the bag she was carrying and pull a small heart-shaped pin out of it. It was a little red plastic thing, about the size of a half-dollar, with the words “Amo a Jesucristo” (I love Jesus Christ) written upon it in gold letters. We each pinned it upon our shirts, above where we calculated our hearts were, and waited for our cue.
Soon the bells began ringing, and after the seventh gong, it stopped. It was now 7 am, and the mass was about to begin. We were ushered by our parent/leader through the old broken door, past the pristine altar, towards the benches to the left side of the hall, underneath the giant statue of Mother Mary. We took our places and sat, waiting for our leader to tell us when to stand up and sing. While we waited I looked at the people sitting at mass. I recognized some of them, but most of them were complete strangers to me. I looked for my grandmother at her usual place, but as always her eyes were closed, as if nothing was as important as whatever she was viewing in her mind’s eye. Sometimes I thought she was sleeping but that theory was always disproved whenever her lips began moving in time with everybody else’s chanting. Soon it came time for us to sing and we sang about fish in the river, about Christ being born, about St. Joseph having to drink soup the child refused to have, and about a donkey going up a mountain. When mass finished, the priest looked towards us and smiled what I believe was a sign of thanks, but I’m not sure. We made our way back past the old door, and after piling our song sheets upon the rickety magical table and putting our pins back into the bag, my sister and I said our goodbyes to the other children and left to meet our grandmother by the holy water font at the church entrance.
We left for home, knowing full well that we would be back that night for evening mass, as well as the next day, for two more masses as well as a chorus practice. Those times though, we wouldn’t be dressed in happy colors. I would be wearing the best black pants and white shirt I had, and my sister would be wearing her best red dress and white shirt she owned. Our hair would be combed as if we were meeting God himself, which supposedly, in a way we were. We were allowed to wear happy colors only on Saturday mornings, and that was my favorite time. I hated wearing black pants and white shirts.
That was the extent of my church experience. I was in a church choir when I was six years old, when my grandmother made my sister and I join. My grandmother was the only one in the family who attended mass in the morning as well as in the evening. Most of the family went only on Sunday nights. I loved going to church, not just because of the choir, but because I knew my mother loved going too. My parents had moved to the United States when I was four, and hadn’t been able to return since. I knew that if my mother were home, it would have been her who would’ve taken us to church. She had been so proud when she was told my sister and I joined the church choir. I loved going to church for that.
My family as a whole wasn’t very religious. They went to church just so that the neighbors wouldn’t talk ill of us, and the neighbors themselves attended church for the same reason. The whole neighborhood was Roman Catholic, but that was only because Peru as a country is predominantly Roman Catholic. We were simply born into it and felt we had no choice, like we had no choice where we were born or who our parents were. However, we were fervently loyal to our faith in the face of anyone who questioned our hearts, although I suspect it was the same type of loyalty we reserved for our local soccer team. (Something else we had no choice over; whichever part of the city you were born in, if you didn’t root for the local team you were branded a traitor.)
When I was seven-years-old, my sister and I moved to America and reunited with our parents. Life in America was much different than life in Peru. One of the most glaring differences was that I no longer had to go to church. Once I asked my mother why she didn’t go to church anymore and her response was that she had no time. In retrospect I can see how it would have been difficult for her to find time around two jobs, two kids and a house to run. However, although she no longer attended mass, it did not mean she was no longer religious. Religion played a big part of our life growing up. There were always candles lit in prayer to God and to San Martin de Porres and Santa Rosa de Lima. My mother was particularly loyal to Peruvian saints.
Despite my mother’s ability to remain religious without going to church, I was not able to share her enthusiasm. Since nobody in my family went to church anymore, I did not go to church. I also made no effort to maintain any religious practices. In fact, I slowly began to forget I was catholic and didn’t really think about God until I was eleven, when my mother informed my sister and I that we were going to make our first communion.
During summer vacation of my eleventh year, my sister and I returned to Peru for two months and took catechism classes, capped by our communion ceremony. During those weeks of classes I began to finally learn about God, but my interest in religion was minimal. Like the rest of my family I was Roman Catholic in name only. In fact, I didn’t go back into a church until 6 years later, when my family held a memorial for my grandfather. I haven’t been to church since.
I don’t know if I am a good catholic or not. I don’t go to church but I am one of those people who believe that not being a churchgoer doesn’t necessarily make you a bad person. I believe that it is the actions you perform when nobody is looking that truly count with God. My main problem with my religion is that I am a person who relies on fact to understand reality, however, my reality has always been shaped by faith. So when I go to school and learn that man descended from the apes I have the drive to believe the facts before me. However, the faith ingrained within me tells me that evolutionary theory is wrong. My true beliefs, lie somewhere in between. Why can’t both sides be true?
I still have trouble reconciling both aspects of my life, the side of me that needs knowledge to understand life, and the part of me that needs faith to function. I may not be very religious, nor a “good” catholic, but I do have a lot of faith. A big part of me still wakes up at six in the morning, ready to go to church and sing songs about fish in the river. I suspect it is the same with everyone in my family. We all want to believe in a higher being watching over us. This is particularly true when we find ourselves in a spot of trouble. I always find myself talking to God, not in search of a “deal”, or asking for help, but just to acknowledge to myself that I do have faith. It is a good way to not feel alone. As the saying goes “There are no atheists in foxholes.”